Sleep of the Just
by clair beaubien
Summary: Tag to 5.01 Dean's already angry with Sam. Now Dean can't sleep and it seems Sam can sleep just fine. Just great. Now up - Ch 2: Sam's POV
1. Chapter 1

Sleep of the just.

Pfft. Sam would probably call it that. He was over there on his bed, asleep, as far over on the mattress away from my bed as he could get without falling on the floor.

No, he'd call it '_sleep of the damned.'_

Me – I call it '_sleep of the just damned stupid.'_

To call what we've had going on here 'tense' was like calling the Apocalypse 'a problem'. It was such an understatement it was brain-stabbing. We didn't talk. We didn't get into each other's space. We didn't ask anything. We didn't tell anything. We hardly even looked at each other. I pulled over to a diner when I thought we might be hungry, or ought to be hungry, and we walked in single file, sat alone in the same booth, ordered our meals, ate our food, drank our coffee, left the tip, paid the bill and got back into the car all without saying one damn thing to each other.

We got to the motel when I couldn't drive any farther and I sure wasn't going to ask Sam to drive. He got out of the car almost before we came to a full stop and practically flung himself into the office. A few minutes later he was back outside but instead of getting in the car he pitched a key through my open window and kept walking down the motel sidewalk.

I thought maybe he got two rooms but the number on my key was the number on the door that Sam punched open. I thought for sure he would slam it in my face, but he didn't give me that satisfaction. He even left it open a little and I saw the inside light flick on. I went to the trunk of the car and grabbed my duffel. I thought about hauling in Sam's backpack, but then I thought if he wanted it, he could damn well come and get it.

Tonight was just going to be _extra_ special, wasn't it?

When I got in the room, Sam was already asleep. It looked like he walked in and just put himself onto the bed. He hadn't even gotten under the covers, he just had his jacket over his shoulders like a blanket. He was still dressed, still had his boots on, eyes closed, turned away from me.

Fine. Whatever. Not like we were gonna talk or anything. Better we stay as far apart as we can, and in a motel room, sleep means distance.

I did the whole 'salt and safety' routine then dropped myself onto my own bed. We were screwed. We were so screwed I couldn't even think about it. Bobby was hurt bad, Cas was back from the dead practically before I could process that he _was_ dead, and pulling his 'enigmatic' crap again, and Zachariah almost made me miss Uriel.

Almost.

We were so screwed.

As tired as I was, sleeping was nowhere in sight, unlike the girnormo thorn in my backside who apparently was so worry-free he could fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Yeah, don't let the end of the world hit you in the ass on your way to dreamland.

Whatever.

I pulled a book out of my duffel and settled for reading myself to sleep. The shadow fell funny over my book from the ceiling light so I reached up and switched on the light over the between-the-beds cabinet. When I did that, Sam put his arm across his eyes. I looked at him a little harder. Looked at the angle of his shoulders around his ears, the tight position of his neck, the white knuckles of his other hand on his pillow.

I hadn't been looking at him all day or night, so I missed the very familiar signs: Sam wasn't sleeping – he had a monster headache.

Great. How do I help him without actually talking to him? Because I am _so_ not talking to him. He didn't take any pills at the diner, nothing in the car, I don't think he had time to take anything in the motel room before I walked in here. So as far as I can tell, he had a monster headache and hadn't done one damn thing about it.

Great. I was gonna have to talk to him.

OK, I could do this. Dad did it all the time. When you have to talk to somebody you don't want to talk to, you talk like it's their fault you're talking to them.

"You take anything?" I asked. I put as much irritation in my voice as I could. As much as I was feeling outside this particular moment.

"No."

That was it. No explanation. No 'thanks for asking'. Not even a 'shut up jerk.'

"Why not?"

"Because I don't _have_ anything."That was either a lie or the headache had blown some of his brain cells. Of course he had something. He always had something because he always carried the industrial strength painkillers in his –

_Backpack._

Only his backpack was in the trunk, and the trunk was locked, and the key was in my pocket.

And Sam sure the hell wasn't going to ask me for anything, let alone that key.

Well, if it's not stubborn, bossy, or hard-headed, it's not a Winchester, is it?

Just great.

Yeah, I was angry at him. Yeah I felt abandoned by him, and betrayed, and a few other things it wouldn't do my blood pressure any good to think about right then. But I wouldn't turn my back on him when he had a knife, literal or otherwise, sticking out of his brain.

I huffed like I was doing something he was forcing me to do and went to get his backpack out of the trunk of the car. I dropped it on the foot of his bed but he didn't make a move toward it. Just as I was about to cave to my parental instincts and get the pills for him, he curled himself semi-upright and fumbled the backpack into his lap.

Every few breaths his breath caught funny in his throat and his hands weren't doing such a good job of finding the bottle. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that his eyes were still closed. Finally he just dumped the whole pack onto the bed. He grabbed the bottle out of the middle of the mess and dragged himself off the bed, shoving most of his possessions onto the floor in the process.

He went into the bathroom, probably for a glass of water, and I caved to my instincts and started collecting those possessions off the floor and into his pack for him.

"_Leave it_." He told me from the bathroom. I could hear the pressure of his headache in his voice. If he had to bend over to pick this stuff up himself, we'd be chasing his eyeballs across the floor.

"I'm not talking to you which means I'm not listening to you either." I told him.

He grumbled but didn't push it. I left his pack on the floor next to his bed and went back to my own as he came out of the bathroom and dropped himself on his mattress again. He pulled a pillow closer in his arms and buried his face in it, blocking the light from his eyes. He kept the bottle of painkillers in his hand.

"Need the trashcan near you?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm close enough to the bathroom if I get sick."

I shut the light off next to my bed and read my book with the shadows across the page.

Yeah, I was angry. Yeah, I was pissed. Yeah, I was everything I had the right to be and a few more things I probably _didn't _ have the right to be but I was going to be them anyway. But that didn't mean I wasn't going to listen now to Sam's breathing, listening for the timbre that meant the pills were working and he was sleeping and this minor crisis at least was over.

And it wasn't until he slept that I slept too. Both of us, the sleep of the just plain _exhausted._

The End.


	2. Sam's POV

The pain started during dinner.

Well, the _headache_ started during dinner; the _pain_ started a long time before that.

I tried eating but everything turned my stomach and I managed just a couple forkfuls of salad then pushed the rest around the plate until Dean laid down the tip and that was my only clue that we were leaving, since it wasn't like we were talking or anything. Talking doesn't do much good when one person doesn't want to hear what the other person doesn't know how to say. Together, we went to the same places at the same time for the same reasons, and then left again the same way. But no talking. There was no talking between us. I hadn't heard so much silence since we drove Jo and Ellen back to the Roadhouse after Philadelphia and H.H. Holmes Sewer of Terror.

But the _headache_ started as I listened to the tines of my fork scrape softly against my plate and the _a-little-too-oily_ texture of the salad dressing clung to the back of my tongue and I faced the prospect of another five or six or more hours in the car with Dean who was in emotional lockdown mode. Driving in the car with him in that mood is hell.

Oh wait – I forgot. _I_ wasn't in hell so _I _don't get to use that as a reference point.

Whatever.

Jerk_._

No. No, he's not. He's just – _Dean_. And that used to be _everything_ to me. And if you'd asked me anytime this past year I would've said Dean still _was_ everything to me. But I guess he wasn't. He couldn't have been. Not when you get right down to it. Because forget that I started the damn Apocalypse - I cut open Dean's heart and laid it in the hand that he'd been holding out to me ever since he got back from hell.

So who's the _real_ jerk?

The car ride did nothing to ease my headache and the farther we drove the farther my spine tried to push up into my skull. My painkillers were in my backpack but that was in the trunk and I just couldn't find the words to let Dean know I needed it. Because I damn sure wasn't going to _ask_ him for it. I just had to hope I could hang on until we got to a motel and I could get my pack and my painkillers when he got his duffel.

Or maybe I could just pass out before then. That would be okay too.

The pain grew until it was like someone had lit a fire behind my eyes and it was burning its way around my brain and all I wanted was to get out of the car and into a bed and away from the lights of oncoming traffic drilling into my eyes. Dean didn't know I was in a bad way, or he wasn't mentioning it or maybe he was wishing it on me. I didn't know. I didn't care. It didn't matter.

As soon as we pulled into a motel I got out to get the room. I didn't want to risk Dean getting chatty and taking too long or I might just hurl all over the car and that would sure endear me to him, wouldn't it? I couldn't even say what name I gave or what credit card I used or even if I asked for two beds. Talk about _endearing_ myself to Dean if I only got one bed. But I must've at least indicated there was two of us because the clerk gave me two keys and then I was out the door again.

I needed to be in bed. I wanted to be in bed. My head was splitting all the way up the back, I could feel it, and I didn't want to waste the time it would take to get back in the car and anyway, even without the headache I wasn't in the mood to talk to Dean, even to tell him the room number. He had his window down so I threw the key at him and was kind of disappointed when I didn't hit him with it and I got into the room as fast as I could.

Two beds. Thank God.

It wasn't until I'd collapsed onto the bed that I remembered I hadn't gotten my backpack, so I hadn't gotten my painkillers, so unless I asked Dean for them I was in for a terrible night.

So I was in for a terrible night.

Any little movement drove my spine further into my brain so I stayed as still as I could, even pretending to be asleep because sleep is the only real privacy in a motel room. Maybe if I stayed still enough, maybe I'd actually fall asleep and the headache would be gone when I woke up again and I could spend tomorrow in only non-physical misery.

Dean came in and shut the door that I hadn't and I heard him take care of protecting the room, protecting us. Protecting _us_, which still included _me_, and I might've asked him for the painkillers then if I thought I could talk without losing that salad dressing all over the pillow. But I couldn't be sure of that, so I stayed quiet and hoped Dean would go to sleep soon so that the room would be dark and silent and keep the fire in my brain from flaring up.

He didn't go to sleep, but at least he didn't turn the TV on either. It sounded like he was sitting on his bed, reading a book, which was good. I could handle that. Not too much sound, not too much movement. I wanted to press both hands against my skull to keep it shoved together at the back but I didn't want to show any sign of discomfort to Dean.

Then he turned the overbed light on and I had to put my arm across my eyes to keep them from boiling out of their sockets.

_Please turn off the light. Please turn off the light. Please turn off the light. Please turn off the light… _

Then I heard it. The slight shift from the bed next to me that I knew was Dean shifting to get a better look in my direction.

"You take anything?" So he recognized I had a headache, but God, he sounded so pissed.

"No."

"Why not?" Still pissed.

"Because I don't have anything." _Genius. What'd you think? Yeah, Dean, I got a headache on purpose just to ruin your night. Just shut up and leave me alone._

He grunted what can generally be interpreted as '_why do I have to do everything?'_ and left the room and came back and I felt something drop on the end of my mattress and the flames flared up in my brain.

_Don't move the bed. Don't move the bed. Don't move the bed…_

It took me a second to realize he'd brought my backpack for me and my painkillers were only a few feet away and if only I could sit up I could get to them.

Only I couldn't seem to sit up.

I was just about to give up and suffer either the pain or asking Dean for help when I sensed him shift again, that kind of shift that meant that he was about to step in and take over again and just -_no. _ I was gonna do this. So I managed to get half upright and grab my pack and the crack in my skull started splintering all around my eyes and cheekbones and I couldn't seem to remember how to actually breathe.

_Oh God, make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop…_

I rummaged through my pack with something on the sharp side of desperation but my hand couldn't find the bottle and my eyes couldn't open and if something didn't go my way soon the results were not going to be pleasant or hygienic. Finally I just emptied the pack on the bed and grabbed the bottle to get to the bathroom before Something Really Bad happened.

And of course I pushed everything off the bed and onto the floor as I slid off.

_Yeah, I meant to do that. _

My stomach stayed in the general neighborhood of where it belonged when I got to the bathroom. I took three of the giant pills with only as much water as I dared to need and rested over on my arms on the sink just in case my body pulled any nasty surprises.

Out the bathroom door I could hear Dean putting my stuff back in my backpack. I told him to leave it. _Don't think for a minute that I'm gonna think I owe you anything. Jerk._

He answered me back and I could barely make out what he said but given the moods we were both in, it probably involved the words _bitch_ or _shut up_, and when I dragged myself back to my bed, everything I'd spilled had been picked up and my pack was waiting next to the bed.

I penciled in saying _'thank you'_ for when I was talking to Dean again and collapsed onto my bed and into my pillows and hoped to block the light again.

Dean was back on his bed with his book, but I couldn't help noticing, because I was paying attention, that he shut the overbed light off and from the time I laid back down until I fell asleep, he didn't turn the page of his book even once.

The End.


End file.
